[Fic] Plotted (Ariadne, PG-13)
Sep. 26th, 2011 01:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
locketofyourhair500+ | Ariadne | G
Unbeta-ed; writing on the body
When Ariadne starts working on other jobs, she starts making notes on the inside of her arms. It reminds her of when she was in grade school. Instead of paying attention, she would draw the symbols of planets and zodiac signs on her hand. She would make long, long lists of homework inside her wrist. She didn’t like planners. She still doesn’t like them.
So she makes her notes. She makes her notes, and Arthur turns his nose up at the smudges across her skin. She doesn’t give a shit, though. Arthur can be as prim as proper as he likes. She doesn’t have that weird booze smell that Eames gets sometimes, when he’s had too many hard nights on the town. If her bad habit is smudged, inky wrists, he can deal. She’s clean when they meet clients and in the dreams, nothing matters.
She and Arthur share a hotel room, sometimes the bed. It’s easy to lay together and not talk. They don’t dream. He goes to bed before she does. His hair is loose from the shower and she sometimes thinks about running her hands through it. They aren’t at that place, where they can touch and just know that neither of them will necessarily take it further.
Adriane appreciates that Arthur is one of the few people who understands, that kissing and touching don’t have to lead places. She could love Arthur in time, maybe when she is as dangerous as he is. She’s not there yet. She can’t show him everything yet.
She writes about this, about thinking what they could be and what they both don’t like, and she writes about it on her stomach, across her breasts, in the shower at night. She doesn’t use full words, abbreviations and tricky codes that never are the same. Sometimes she is carrot cake and he is caramel; sometimes she is Plato and he is Socrates. She doesn’t want him to be able to make out the codes in the brief moments that he sees her naked. He still plays very much a gentlemen and doesn’t watch her.
Adriane watches the marker move across her skin, nipples tightening when the pen gets closer and closer. Her nipples tighten and she bites her lip. She feels like she’s drafting their destiny sometimes, and other times it’s the ramblings of a teenager.
Except it always makes her skin burn a little. She adds a song lyric to some song she can’t even name onto her left breast, and she touches over her nipples, smudging the writing now and wondering what it would be like if these where his hands. She rubs at the words again, to watch the words smudge.
When she can’t blur the words anymore, can’t rub them into her skin anymore, she showers and scrubs at them. She scrubs under her skin is pink, until the words are just vague outlines of the words. She’s less worried about her messy wrists. She likes to leave just that lingering hint, to look at them and remember.
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